A Yanqui Invasion!

Well, this month has absolutely flown by. After the trip to Bariloche with River, a weekend in Córdoba with my grandpa, and a ten-day visit from my aunt and cousin, July has come and gone.

The first week of June, my aunt came to visit and was able to come watch me train at River. She was impressed by the abilities of many of my teammates and noticed a significant difference between the style of play she was used to with her fourteen-year-old daughter's youth team and the style of play here in Argentina. She was even more impressed when I pointed out two of our youngest players who are the same age as my cousin yet can keep up with girls who are anywhere from four to thirteen years older. During our post-practice merienda at the club, my aunt started talking to my coach about the possibility of bringing her daughter to train with the team for a couple weeks in July or August, an idea which my coach, who is always happy to bring in new players, enthusiastically supported.

After practice and for the rest of my aunt's visit, she and I spoke mainly about the team and women's soccer in general in Argentina. As I began explaining the situations of many of the girls – the financial and family issues many of them struggle with – my aunt grew eager to help in any way she could. After brainstorming a few ideas, thinking about finding potential team sponsors or donors, coming up with potential contacts for international trips with the team, we decided the most tangible, though short-term, help she could provide would be to bring cleats for the girls who most needed them the next time she came to Buenos Aires.

Thus, about two weeks ago, my aunt arrived to the International Airport in Ezeiza with my cousin (L), my cousin's friend (C), my cousin's friend's parents, and fifteen pairs of soccer cleats (not including those of my cousin and her friend), which she somehow managed to get through customs without any issues. My cousin and her friend deserve some serious props. The very same day they landed in Buenos Aires, they came to train at River with girls who, on average, are about five or six years older and much stronger. Their short stay in Buenos Aires opened their young eyes to a whole new world of soccer and lifestyle than the world they are so used to in the US.

Got cleats?

Before delving into L and C's experience here, it might be worthwhile to provide some background on the youth soccer scene in the US (or at least the one my cousin and her friend are a part of in South Florida). In general, competitive soccer is a fairly elitist sport in the US, meaning parents must pay significant sums for their child to join a club team, for their child's gear, for travel to tournaments around the state and even to other states. To give their child a competitive edge, many parents also pay for private training with conditioning and position coaches and buy their child the newest and best gear (a new pair of elite cleats can run anywhere from $120 to $250).

Until college, most female players (in competitive soccer) train with their club teams two to three times per week and have one to two games on the weekends. The majority of players get to soccer practice and games by car, whether they drive themselves or ride with their parents. While there are players who have to drive more than an hour to training, on average, most players have a commute closer to a half-hour or fifteen minutes.

I'm not saying any of this as a criticism (after all it's basically the same system I grew up playing in and  the US is one of the countries in which women's soccer is highly developed and valued), but merely to give an idea of where L and C are coming from in order to understand why they were so surprised and sometimes shocked at certain aspects of women's soccer in Argentina. Perhaps my cousin was slightly more prepared than her friend since my aunt had talked to her a little bit about my teammates' home situations. C struggled even to grasp why my aunt had to bring so many pairs of cleats for the girls. "Don't they sell cleats in Argentina??"

They quickly began to empathize with my Argentine teammates after taking the bus a few times. Not too unsurprisingly, my aunt and C's parents were slightly hesitant to let their daughters travel by public transport to training (obviously not alone), but I insisted it was an essential part of understanding what the girls on the team have to do every day to get to the club. Here's my cousin's brief description (word-for-word) of her Buenos Aires bus experience:

"To get to the field, I had to take the bus. It was unsanitary and disgusting, but I want to train at River Plate a lot so I have to get used to it!" (side note: the buses are not really that unsanitary and disgusting, but maybe to a first time bus rider the lack of spick and spanness was a shock...)

Luckily, L and C were able to be broken in gradually to riding the buses here in Buenos Aires. Contrary to the typical bus experience*, just as we arrived at the bus stop, an almost empty bus showed up and we were able to sit down all together. They were also able to avoid having to wait for the bus on a rainy day, which has to be one of the most miserable experiences this life has to offer. The one day the girls did get to ride a full bus, C got her foot caught in the door. Somehow neither of them were lost during travel to and from River, as bus drivers here give passengers a very small window to get on or off (my fear was that either L or C wouldn't get on or off in time and would end up alone in the city without a clue of how to get to where they needed to be...)

*Typical BsAs bus experience in a nutshell

• 10-30 minute wait (or if you're super lucky, the bus might not even come because due to a protest somewhere in the city, the bus had to take a detour and won't pass by the bus stop where you've already been waiting for 40 minutes)
• one full bus (sometimes more) passing you by without stopping
• another 5-10 minute wait for the next one 
• getting herded onto a packed bus, shoved between people, backpacks, and purses while holding onto a pole for dear life as the driver slams the brakes each time he stops to pick up more passengers 
• watching like a hawk for anybody seated who looks like they might be ready to get up, prepared to fight to the death in order to get that oh-so-precious, recently-vacated seat...
• if you are lucky enough to find a seat, sliding out before the two people standing over you get into an all out duel for your seat just in time to push the button to finally get off the bus. 
• jump off as soon as the driver opens the door even if the bus never comes to a complete stop

Another moment of shock for L and C came when we played against San Lorenzo. My coach had invited my aunt, L, C, and C's parents to come to the club before the game to eat breakfast with us and ride with us on the team bus. On game day, we go to the club, eat breakfast, change into our River gear, and... the bus isn't there. After making several desperate calls to club administrators, we are forced to take 6 taxis to San Lorenzo's stadium, about a 40 minute drive. We get to the field with just enough time for a decent warm-up, but when the game's start time comes and goes, the referee's whistle still hasn't signaled the start of the game due to the absence of the required ambulance. After waiting around for about a half hour, the ambulance finally pulls through the gates of San Lorenzo's complex and the game begins. L, C, and their parents witnessed a series events, stemming from a severe lack of organization, which would never occur in a US game, except in extreme circumstances, but are a common occurrence here. We were lucky the ambulance showed up because games are often cancelled and the points awarded by default to the visiting team if there either the required ambulance or police are not present within a certain amount of time from the scheduled kick-off.

When it was finally time for my cousin and her friend to leave, neither of them were ready to head back to the US. They had already become attached to the girls on the team. The bond they developed with my teammates came mainly from the time spent socializing during the merienda in the club's confitería, La Máquina, after practice. It is a sacred ritual with our team, in which we all participate after every practice. Some stay for an hour or so while others leave quickly after finishing their tea or café con leche. Either way, it's a part of our routine which the whole team enjoys. Once everybody has finished showering and changing, we all head to the cafeteria, which is basically a restaurant inside the club, where we are served yogurt, orange juice, coffee or tea, and tostados. While we eat, we have the chance to socialize in a different context than in the locker room or on the field.

For my friend Sheeva, a soccer player at Vassar College who trained with River while she was in Buenos Aires for a summer study abroad program, the merienda was where she developed most of her relationships with the girls on the team.

"The post-practice merienda was very new to me. In the US, after practice we usually just get in our car and instantly return to our lives outside of soccer, but the merienda gives everyone a chance to get to know one another in a non-competitive atmosphere. I got the impression that there was more to the team than just practices and games...[The merienda table] was where we made plans for dinner or for the weekends.

Of course, the girls speak very quickly, so I didn't understand all the conversations at the table, but, as a result, I was able to really improve my Spanish. When I didn't understand something, the girls helped me by explaining. Yes, they would get their laughs out of the fact that I can't pronounce my double R's, or if I would stare blankly when they told me the punchline to a joke, but the language barrier didn't stop them from starting conversation. Sometimes the language barrier itself even acted as an interesting topic of conversation."

Having Sheeva, L, and C around for the merienda made for a nice break from being the sole non-native Spanish speaker on the team (except for our Argentine-German player). For once, I wasn't the only one giving blank stares after getting lost in the conversation. At times, the roles were even reversed as the Yanquis would slip into speaking English amongst ourselves, slowly "taking over" River's women's soccer team. Our numbers were reinforced further by the arrival of Gabi, my brilliant teammate from Rice University, another "Argenyanqui"with hopes of playing with the full Argentine national team (she already helped the U-20 Argentine national team to a 2nd place finish at the South American Championships to qualify for last year's U-20 World Cup in Japan). While my teammates gave me a hard time about the so-called "Yanqui" invasion, I know they enjoyed the mix of cultures and backgrounds and the laughs which came from miscommunications and mispronunciations from all sides.

However, as the North American summer comes to a close and a new school year is about to begin, my fellow Yanquis at River (L, C, Sheeva, and Gabi) are leaving me behind in Buenos Aires to fend for myself. Now, I have to readjust to limiting my English to Skyping with my friends and teaching my private students... If my English language abilities start to deteriorate in my blog posts, at least you now know why...

Barilo, Barilo, we goin' to Barilo (part 2)

Okay, so as promised, here's part two of my trip...

After arriving to Bariloche, after the longest bus ride of my life (at least until the return trip...), we checked into the hotel, cleaned up, and headed out to see the town. A group of about 25 young women decked out in River Plate gear is hardly inconspicuous in any circumstance, and even less so in a relatively small town like San Carlos de Bariloche.

As we walked through the city center, we could feel everybody's eyes on us. The cars driving by honked at us either out of malice, if the driver was a bostero (depreciative term used by Argentines to refer to fans of Boca Juniors), or out of pride, if the driver was of the millionario (River Plate's fan base). People along the sidewalk stopped to ask us which sport we played; some even asked us if we played basketball... despite the average height of our team being below 5' 5'' (1.65 m)... A few groups of teenagers, who were in Bariloche for their high school graduation trip, started singing River chants while others had the nerve to sing anti-River cheers. All those responses were fun, but the most memorable reaction as we went through town was when people would ask for a picture with us.

Perhaps the men's first team players get tired of having to stop for photos everywhere they go, but for us, as females athletes in a country which doesn't give much attention to women's soccer, it was a pretty cool experience. Obviously, they weren't necessarily fans of our team in particular but of the club as a whole. Outside of Buenos Aires, in the towns throughout the interior of the country, seeing a team from a club as important as River Plate is a big deal, and even the city and province government treated our appearance as such.

The second day, we ate breakfast while reading the local newspaper which had a group photo of our team on the front page, announcing our arrival to Bariloche and our two games scheduled for the next day at the municipal stadium. We then made our way to the town hall for a press conference held by the municipality, which was attended by all the local media outlets, both print and digital. Two players, along with our head coach, a local government official, and the secretary of sport were interviewed before we went for a walk along the lake to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

The view from town hall

The hometown star (our only player from Bariloche)

Our defense is made up principally of Charlie's Angels... 

 The same afternoon, we took a bus to the Cerro Catedral, Bariloche's ski resort. On our way, a local radio station called to do a live interview with our coach and with our player from Bariloche. In one day in Bariloche, River women's soccer received more press coverage than in my six months with the team so far... (okay, so I may be exaggerating slightly, but it was still impressive and encouraging to see the city supporting women's soccer).

As we pulled up to the resort, the girls' faces lit up as they saw snow covering the ground. For many of them, it was the first time they'd ever seen snow. Eager to feel it, the girls ran off the bus, a few almost slipping on the frozen ground, to the closest pile of snow. We had been hoping to build snowmen at the top of the mountain where there was much more snow to play with, but, unfortunately, due to cost issues, we were unable to take the gondola to the top. However, we did make the most of the afternoon by having a massive snowball fight with the snow we were able to scrounge up at the base of the slope. Except for the occasional ball of ice to the face, both sides ended up without any major injuries.

Instead of writing a few thousand words about what we saw that day, I'll share a few pictures:

 Finally, the next day, we played two back-to-back friendlies, the main reason for which we had traveled so far. Both games were against all-star teams (more or less) from the region. The games themselves were not exactly thrilling (we won 5-0 and 4-2, respectively), but the atmosphere and the time shared with the opposing teams and the fans afterward were quite special.

Since the games had been announced for a couple days running in all the local media outlets, the fan turn-out was pretty good, there was even a group of River fanatics, the Banda de Bariloche, which travel to all of the men's games they can, who came to cheer us on from behind our goal. After the game, all three teams and many of the fans made their way onto the field. I can't even remember how many times I was asked for a photo and even asked for autographs. Our opponents seemed almost starstruck; they were the ones who were most excited to take pictures with us. For the girls on the local teams, having the opportunity to play against River Plate, one of the top teams in Argentine women's soccer, was a completely new and exciting experience. The fans in general were mainly just thrilled to see a team representing River Plate in their town. One of the members of the Banda de Bariloche even gave me his red and white winter cap in exchange for a photo (Don't misinterpret this. I didn't ask for the hat...). It was one of the first times I wasn't in a hurry to leave the field after a game in the cold. As a team we wanted to enjoy the moment and the time shared with the other teams and the fans who had come to support us.

Even on cold, cloudy days Bariloche is stunning

The day after the game, after an all-around amazing trip, it was finally time to head back to Buenos Aires, and another 28 or 29 hours later, we were back at River. Our bus was led into the city by an escort of honking horns, angry drivers, crazy traffic, and smog, a slight contrast to the natural beauty and calm of Bariloche. Needless to say, I have to go back. Who wants to come with me?

*no photos were edited, each photo came straight from my camera or from one of my teammates'.

"Barilo, Barilo, we goin' to Barilo..."

I don't want to hear another Nene Malo song for the rest of my life...

This past week, River Plate Fútbol Femenino took an unforgettable trip to Bariloche, Río Negro, in the south of Argentina, about 1600 kilometers from the city of Buenos Aires. We left directly from our league game on Sunday (which we narrowly won 13-0 against Platense... I was drinking mates in the goal box ...) at around 6:30 p.m. and arrived in Bariloche at 4:30 p.m. the next day, only stopping once or twice to get gas – though no one was allowed off the bus in order to save time. Needless to say, after almost 24 hours on board, we were all thankful when the door finally opened and we were able to walk somewhere other than the aisle separating the rows of seats.

Traveling through Argentina by bus is an interesting experience, especially when one lives in Buenos Aires, a city with block after block after block of building after building filled with people, people, and people (and lots of dogs too) with streets filled with cars, buses, motorcycles, scooters, and bikes all fighting to get past the next guy to get to work, school, a meeting, church, a party, soccer, etc. As soon as you get about two hours west of the capital, life starts to slow down. There is more and more space between houses, cars, and people. Rarely does one hear a honking horn; (in my case all I heard was cumbia by the oh-so-wonderfully terrible Nene Malo...) the only sound is overwhelming silence interrupted by the occasional whoosh of a passing truck or car. For almost 1000 kilometers all one sees is wide open plains and fields populated mainly by livestock and soy (as well as a few humans).

La Pampa

We pass out of the province of Buenos Aires and into La Pampa without even noticing. The plains continue and the two-lane highway appears to extend infinitely into the horizon. Observing the vast, almost uninhabited landscape, one can't help but wonder why the population is so heavily concentrated in the city of Buenos Aires and the surrounding areas. Buenos Aires is not only the seat of political power in Argentina but is also home to the majority of private business and industries, many of which could be located without a problem in another less-densely populated province to promote decentralization of power. However, due to laws and subsidies which encourage centralization of power and industry in the capital, almost half of Argentina continues to reside within an area covering under 2 percent of the nation's total surface area.

Living in Buenos Aires, it's easy to forget there is more to Argentina than the city and its suburbs. In any urban setting, it's also easy to get caught up in the "fast and furious" (sorry, we just watched the fifth movie of the series on the bus...) lifestyle of the city. One of my teammates wisely observed, "Porteños are so busy going from here to there, running to work, running to workout, running to school, running to catch the bus or the subway, they forget why they are even running in the first place. If you were to stop and ask most of them why they are living, most would probably be left speechless. That's what's so great about living in the country. We live at a different pace. Even though we may not have the material wealth or comforts that come with living in the capital, we learn to enjoy our time with family and friends. We have more time to pause and think about the reasons behind why we do what we do during the day. We work to live, to support our families; we don't live to work... The city is cold and uninviting. There are so many people yet each person is isolated in his own world. If we as humans are all equal, why do we treat each other with such distrust, like strangers, like what we need to do each day is more important than what the person next to us on the bus needs to do...?"

Finally, around 2 p.m. the landscape began to change. The flat plains began to rise into rolling hills which grew gradually higher and more impressive as we drove along the winding road. We began to see small piles of snow on the shady side of bushes. Quick glimpses of the snowy peaks of the Andes Mountains began to appear as we made our way through the foothills. At one point, we found ourselves above the clouds, a view which was truly unforgettable. As we came around a bend, we saw what appeared at first to be a lake covered by fog, with snow-covered mountains in the background, but soon we realized the lake was actually clouds which had settled in the valley. Everyone rushed to grab their camera or phone to try to capture the stunning panorama, but even the best devices couldn't capture the beauty of the moment.

My attempt to capture the panorama

The remaining two hours to Bariloche were filled with oohs and ahhs as the landscape became more and more stunning. I could try to describe the views, but I think pictures are more effective.

Upon arriving to Bariloche, we were received by the municipality's Minister of Sports who took us to our hotels and helped us get settled in – though it was not easy to pull us away from the spectacular views of Lake Nahuel Huapi which greeted us as we got off the bus.

As for the rest of the trip, it'll have to wait until the next blog post because this one is quickly getting too long...

To be continued...

A reflection on Father's Day...

So, today is Father's Day, both here and in the US, and, like Mother's Day, I am once again spending the holiday without the corresponding parent... Even though they don't feel so far away thanks to Skype and Whatsapp, it's not the same as being with them in person. Despite the distance, I was able to reflect a little on how thankful I am to have been blessed with such an amazing dad. He has constantly demonstrated his love for my sister and me since the day we were born, not just by his words but also, or perhaps even more so, by his actions. Also, the way he has respected, honored, and loved my mother throughout their marriage of twenty-five years has set the bar high for my future husband.

My dad and I at our first pro European soccer game. Paris St. Germain vs. Bordeaux

It wasn't only Father's Day, however, which brought up these feelings of gratitude but various conversations with teammates throughout the week, providing me with a brief glimpse of the fathers (or non-fathers) in their lives:  

"Oh, on Facebook? That's my mother's last name. My father's last name is _______ which is what is officially on my DNI (national ID). But I don't really consider him to be anything to me. He was never there. All he left me was my last name. I wish he hadn't even left that so I wouldn't have to think about him every time I use my DNI for something..." - G, 17 years old.

"No, I can't go tonight. My whole family came into town and is staying with my sister and me... Right after the game, I'm going to the hospital. Tomorrow my dad is having surgery. They found a tumor in his brain which needs to be removed. We won't know whether it's malignant or benign until the end of the month when they get the results of the biopsy... It wouldn't surprise me if it turns out to be malignant. He smokes like a chimney, the son-of-a-b------..." - F, 23 years old.

"My dad used to play soccer too, ya know. He was pretty good so I like to listen to him when he tells me how I should improve. He tells me to let the 'savage' out and just play. He says that when I do that, I'll be unstoppable, but, I don't know, I don't know how to do that. My dad is strong. He doesn't let anyone push him around and defends our family no matter what. I don't think I have his mean streak or the fire to play like he did, like a 'savage'..." - Z, 19 years old

"You've never seen me angry. I only get angry in situations where my anger is justified. When I get angry, I get violent. 

One day, I was coming home from playing a soccer game with a group of my teammates. We drove past a service station and saw a man beating his girlfriend. My friend pulled over and we all got out and raced toward the couple to pull the man off the woman and let him have it. We beat him up pretty bad, but the girlfriend, instead of running away, waited to make sure her boyfriend was okay so she could leave with him. He probably had her so dependent on him that she felt trapped and unable to get out of the relationship. 

But that doesn't even compare to the rage I felt when I saw my sister's boyfriend hit her while she was pregnant. I mean, who wouldn't get angry? They were around the corner from my house, and there were even other people around who just stood and watched. I was the first to react. I ran over and started punching and kicking him until my dad arrived and pulled me away so he could handle the situation. I'll never forgive him nor look at him the same way again, I don't care if my sister loves him or not. He knows that if he touches her one more time, he's as good as dead." - F, 27 years old 

"I've wanted to get F out of that house for a while now. She lives alone with her father who doesn't even give her the time of day. I don't know where her mother is. She's basically on her own. She cooks and cleans and also has a five-hour round trip to River four times per week. He doesn't even care that she still has over a year of high school left and probably won't finish any time soon..." - R talking about F, 19 years old

"My father doesn't live with us any more. It's just my 6 siblings and I with our mother. A couple of years ago I caught my dad beating my mom. I grabbed something to defend her with and chased him away. He hasn't been back to our house since. Sometimes I see him around because he lives just a few blocks away, but he doesn't even acknowledge me. He'll wave or talk to my siblings, but with me, nothing.

It's weird for me though. We used to be really close. He was the one who would come with me to all of my games. He'd always support me from the sideline and give me pointers. But now, it's as if none of that ever happened. I'll never get the image of him hitting my mom out of my mind..." - L, 32 years old

After a couple of these conversations, I was left speechless. What does one say to a friend who just told you her father was abusive? How does one react?

At first, I felt a rage built up inside my gut along with a lump rise in my throat. A desire to exact revenge on my friend's father came upon me before my other friend who was sitting with us said, "Gaby, this is a lot of people's reality. Your dad is just an exception to the rule."

Woah. How can somebody think that way? It should be the other way around, shouldn't it? Maybe I've just been lucky enough to be surrounded by real men who know how to respect women, or maybe I've just been blind or ignorant to friends who have been abused in one way or another by their father or other men in their life? 

Thoughts of anger and frustration began to flood my mind followed by an overwhelming sadness. Some of these young women have never known a relationship with a loving father. Their vision of men is so distorted by their past experiences that some don't want anything to do with members of the opposite sex. Luckily, our coach has become sort of a father figure for many of my teammates in his two years with the team. He does his best to demonstrate how a man should treat a woman in the way he leads us, with respect and sensibility, but our coach's fatherly authority is limited to the time we are at the club. He cannot replace the role of father which has been left empty for quite a few of my teammates. 

Why was I blessed enough to have a dad who took care of me and my family, who treated us with respect, who led us in a Godly, moral way? Why couldn't my teammates experience the same thing? I don't think I'll ever have the answers, but I am extremely thankful for him. I'm not sure I've said this enough, but...

Thanks, Dad. Thanks for always being there. Thanks for being a reflection of our Heavenly Father's love for us. Thanks for being an example of a loving husband and father. Thanks for sacrificing personal and career goals in order to serve our family. Thanks for supporting mom as she showed Vanessa and me how to be strong and independent women. Thanks for many other things which I don't have room to list on this blog. I love you so much and can't wait to see you and mom when you come visit me. 

P.S. Here's a sneak peak at your Father's Day gift (which I was hoping to give you in person as a surprise, but I can't keep it a secret anymore...)

Yes, I almost cried when I found out my friend had actually gotten this signed for me...

So much to blog, so little time...

Life is about balance, isn't it? As each of us is given a limited number of hours per day, we are forced to organize our lives by balancing and prioritizing the things which matter most: faith, family, friends, work, studies, sports, etc. Some perform this balancing act better than the rest while others fail miserably. However, for most of us, we find ourselves in the middle, learning as we go along.

As we progress through each stage of life, we are given more and more responsibilities. During our childhood, our obligations are minimal and typically consist of school, homework, and a few chores (of course, there are many children around the world who are forced to mature faster due to difficult circumstances and must help bear their family's financial burden by working). As we move into adolescence and young adulthood, our pre-existing responsibilities are multiplied while new ones are added, such as a job or romantic relationships. For those who go to college, paying the bills and learning to live without one's parents are new challenges we're forced to face. After college, we begin our careers, many get married, and then have children, all steps which increase our obligations exponentially, but the changes still seem gradual as we have already been preparing ourselves for these changes in the earlier stages of our lives. (Please note that this is a very broad generalization of the stages of life, and clearly there are people who choose to take their lives in other directions or in a different order).

Currently, I find myself in between the college stage and the starting "real life" stage. I am technically still in school since I just began a doctorate program here in Buenos Aires, but it is very part-time, (my class only meets one night per week). My mornings are filled with teaching English classes to a wide variety of students, some private and others through a language institute, while my afternoons are spent at River Plate training and working toward earning a place with the Argentine national team. Some evenings I give other private English lessons and the rest of the week I catch up with the readings for my doctorate class. The spaces between these activities I try to spend with friends and family here, but, often, I am so exhausted from the day, I feel as though I don't have enough energy left to enjoy my time with them. All this to explain why I haven't blogged in approximately one month...

Puerto Madero at sunrise - one benefit of walking to work early in the morning

Now is the moment when the need to prioritize comes in... I need to remember why I came to Argentina in the first place. Was it to teach English or to play soccer? Was it to write a blog on the internet or to live with my Grandma and keep her company, making up for the many years she's lived alone? Honestly, it's a mixture of all of the above, which is what has made the prioritizing process quite difficult. I am recognizing, however, how this experience is helping me prepare for more challenging times ahead, especially if I eventually get married and have a family. For now, I'm struggling to keep just my own head above water while I juggle my activities and relationships with others (both those who live here and back in the US).

Blogging is another challenge. Often, the time I set aside to blog is overrun by unplanned activities. Friends who find themselves nearby want to stop by the apartment. Friends and family in other countries who finally find a break in their equally busy schedules want to catch up via Skype. Students need to reschedule their English classes. My boss rearranges my work schedule. My professor assigns more reading and work than normal. And so on...

Time passes and I realize it's been one, two, three weeks since I've blogged. I've already forgotten the things I've noted from my day to day goings-on as blog-worthy observations. However, if one devotes too much time to blogging and not enough time to living life, what is left to blog about? "Hmmm... today my cat jumped on the table, and my Grandma got mad, but I was too busy blogging to notice." Or, "Yesterday, someone on TV mentioned something about some workers who were upset about something and were protesting somewhere in the city which caused some sort of traffic jam nearby, but I was too busy blogging about my cat jumping on the table to catch any of the details..." Okay, so I may be exaggerating slightly, but these are thoughts which cross my mind as I try to justify why I haven't blogged in so long...

Talking so much about my cat made me want to share her beauty with the blogosphere...

These are challenges which are faced by anybody who writes, whether it is simply for one's personal enjoyment or for one's career. Writing takes time and is a solitary process. For example, each blog post takes me about two hours to complete, considering the time required first to reflect on what I am going to write, the actual time spent writing, and finally the revision process. By the time I finish, I don't even want to read what I've written because I'm so sick of looking at the computer screen.

Although it may seem like a contradiction, writing is an enjoyable struggle. With each post I hope to present a new perspective not only to those who read my blog but also to myself. Blogging forces me to analyze life in a different way. Instead of passively observing situations which may be as mundane as taking public transportation (which in reality is rarely mundane in Buenos Aires...), I am constantly reflecting on how I can communicate the experience in a page or so of written English. Now, I just need to find a way to communicate these experiences more frequently...

Operation GBA: star player retrieval.

About two weeks ago, we played a tie-breaker game against Boca Juniors, a game which not only decided the winner of the league but also which team would compete in the Copa Libertadores (South America's Champion's League), not to mention the pressure which naturally arises from one of the most bitter rivalries in all of sports, between Argentina's two biggest clubs, Boca and River. We lost. We didn't just lose either. We lost badly. It didn't even look like we had shown up to play. After the first five minutes, from the stands we could tell the game was already lost, judging from the attitudes of the players on the field. Long story short, we lost 3-1 even after Boca had a player sent off with a (self-acknowledged well-deserved) red card.

Pretty sure this picture captures the hinchada's (fans) frustration during the entire game...

Now, I've lost big games before, unfortunately, but my team has always been able to bounce back well and learn from the mistakes made in the previous game. Logically, I expected a similar sort of reaction here. This was not to be the case.

Our first day back at practice (the day after the game), we sat in the equipment room, which basically serves as our locker room, for over an hour, hashing out issues related to the team and coaches. We then continued on to have a good practice, so I assumed all was well and the team was ready to move on and prepare for the next season which was to start that next Saturday. I was slightly wrong in my assumption... At our next practice, to which I arrived over an hour late (because I was trying to get my document situation figured out) expecting for training to be winding down, the team was just beginning the warm-up, and the expressions on the faces of the players were extremely serious, almost as though someone had just passed away. Even our coach, who normally greets my with a big smile, could hardly manage a slight grin when I went to share good news about the status of my long-awaited National Document of Identification (DNI - essential for signing me to play in the next season). Also, I noticed many of our most important players were missing. More drama had arisen among players, coaches, and now administration (drama about which I am not going to go into great detail).

Luckily, our game last Saturday was suspended due to weather. I say "lucky" because the problems from the last week continued on into this week, bringing with it more bad news. One of our best players, if not the best, (we'll call her Z) had decided she no longer wanted to play with River for various reasons. This was a girl I was hoping to see one day playing at a university in the United States on a full scholarship. Even more importantly, she's a great person and a wonderful teammate, someone the team would miss dearly both on and off the field. In reaction to her departure, the coach said something which offended another of our best players who then proceeded to leave practice less than half-way through.

Now, imagine me. I came all the way from the US to play at River, a club which had been fighting to win the most important title in women's soccer in Argentina, and just two weeks later the team is falling apart (let's not forget to mention who we play against for our second game of the new season – none other than Boca Juniors). I never really started to freak out about the situation, but I was certainly heading that direction while feelings of disappointment and disillusionment were starting to creep in. At one point, it even crossed my mind to return home to the US, a thought which was quickly pushed out as I remembered the reasons why I had come to Argentina in the first place. Obviously, winning the league is important to me, but growing as an athlete and a person is even more essential. In my experience, during the most difficult times is when I've experienced the most growth (not to say the growth was either easy or enjoyable in the moment...).

Finally, this past Wednesday, a group of girls on the team (who were able to go) and I went in two cars to go see the two players who had quit to try to convince them to reconsider their decision and return to the club. We first drove to Z's house. I was in the car with a teammate from Córdoba (another province), a teammate who lives near Z, and the president of women's soccer at River (Eduardo) who was kind enough to spend his whole night driving us around what seemed like all of Greater Buenos Aires (GBA). After about an hour on the highway, we started to go all through backroads and small towns to get to Z's house. The drive seemed eternal. As we got further and further from Capital Federal and closer and closer to Z's house, the buildings and streets got more and more abandoned and worn-down until we finally turned down a dirt road and pulled up near her house (about 2 hours after leaving the club). I couldn't actually see Z's house from where Eduardo had parked because of the darkness and a field which stood between us and the house, but judging from the surrounding houses, the area was veryyyyyy humble (for lack of a better adjective), complete with stray dogs and cats which kept us company while we waited for Z and her father.

Not a picture I took, but definitely a house similar to the ones I saw near where Z lives.

Z's father arrived first and talked to us about what he though needed to change at River, why his daughter had decided to leave. He is almost exactly what one imagines when one thinks of a factory or construction worker in Latin America: darker, rough skin, missing teeth, and tired eyes. He was slightly gruff in his interaction with us but never rude, and it was clear he was thankful we had come to see his daughter. At one point during the conversation, I noticed he was leaning against Eduardo's SUV with his arm extended and his hand resting against the door. At first glance, I didn't notice anything off, but after another look, I saw that all of his fingers on his right hand were cut off at the first knuckle. For a man who depends on his body for his work, I tried to imagine how difficult it must be for him to convince employers of his capability to complete physical labor. I then remembered what my coach had mentioned to me a few weeks earlier about Z's home life, about why she had dropped out of high school with two years left. There was a point in time, within the past two to three years, when Z's parents were struggling to even put food on the table for Z and her seven siblings, let alone worrying about paying nearly 20 pesos a day for Z to travel to and from River (a five-hour roundtrip by public transportation). I don't have many more details about Z's family situation, but from what I saw, taking River away from her would be taking away a huge source of joy as well as an escape from the hardships she faces at home on a regular basis. Even more so, Z has a very promising soccer future, one which most likely includes playing with the Argentine National Team and participate in something only a select few get to experience in this life.

An image I hope will stay with me forever is Z's facial expression as she walked up to us. As soon as she saw seven of her teammates and Eduardo waiting for her with her dad, her eyes began to fill up with tears, and she could hardly swallow the lump in her throat enough to say hello to each one of us. One of the most humble people I know, Z was shocked and overwhelmed when she realized we valued her enough to come so far just to personally persuade her to rejoin the team. I truly wish all the best for her; I would love to see her succeed and do big things, or at least be able to take advantage of the opportunities she has thanks to her phenomenal soccer abilities. She has a very special heart, and it was beautiful to see her sensitivity come out, especially as she is one of the most quiet and shy girls on the team.

Our efforts of Wednesday night were not in vain because on Friday both girls returned to the team and came to practice. On Saturday afternoon, we played our first game of the new season against Club Atlético Excursionistas and won 9-1 with both players scoring and assisting multiple times. (I also made my official AFA tournament debut, though we won't discuss that part...). This week, our team's focus turns to preparing to face Boca Juniors again, but this time with more confidently and united.

Smooshed in the subway: A rite of passage into "Porteñohood"

Monday morning I had my first real experience of riding the metro in Buenos Aires during rush hour. It would not be unfair to say that the passengers were packed in the train cars more tightly than sardines in a can. I don't think I've ever felt more suffocated than I did during that metro ride. Pressed between a metal pole, a middle-aged businessman, a barely 5-foot tall lady, a grandmother and her grandaughter, and who knows who else, I was literally unable to move. As I was right next to the door, each time the train stopped to let people off and on, I was pushed further into the crowd and also into the metal pole to make room for the exchange of passengers. Just when I would think the car was full, someone else would push his or her way on, barely escaping being crushed by the automatic car doors in the process. At one point, I was almost positive my hamstring was going to start cramping, which led to (perhaps unreasonable) fears of involuntarily kicking out at my neighbors on the train, which in turn would spark an all out brawl among the passengers since tensions were already high early on a Monday morning.

I didn't take this picture, but this is exactly what the metro was like.

Every and all personal barriers were crossed, and basically erased, on that metro ride. I couldn't tell whose arm/leg/butt was against me, and it was nearly impossible to breathe air other than the carbon dioxide exhaled by the person whose face was only inches from mine. No wonder I've already been sick twice in the past month. If one person on the subway has a cold, the four people surrounding him are at risk for infection, and the four people surrounding each one of them, and then a chain effect occurs... I don't even want to imagine the colonies of bacteria which must be thriving on the handles and seats of the subway (again, I might be slightly exaggerating, but still, it's gross to think about...). Just writing about this is making me feel sick again.

Counting down the stations, the ride seemed like it would never end. Those twenty minutes felt like an eternity, and each time the doors would open at a station, I would take advantage to try to breathe again before the doors closed to head back into the darkness of the subway tunnel. Finally, when I arrived at my stop, I pushed my way through the masses, off the train, and onto the platform. I took a moment just to pause and take a few deep breaths since my lungs could now expand fully once again, trying to fight off the feelings of claustrophobia and nausea rising in my stomach.

One might wonder, "why didn't you just wait for the next train since this one was so full?" Well, after waiting more than twenty minutes for a train to arrive, freaking out about arriving late for a demo lesson presentation with a coordinator at the language institute I am applying to work with, I couldn't risk waiting around another half hour for the next train. Yes, I did wait 20 minutes for the subway during peak times, something almost unheard of in major American and European cities except during labor strikes or under extreme circumstances. Here, porteños are accustomed to waiting long periods of time for public services, whether it's for transport, healthcare, official documents, etc. Looking around the platform as I waited, no one seemed particularly agitated or worried -- though no one appeared particularly thrilled to board an already jam-packed subway train...

Again, not my picture, but this is how full the train was.

Remember those greeting customs I mentioned so tenderly a couple of months ago? The lack of barriers or boundaries during the greeting, a kiss on the cheek, also manifests itself in a less friendly way in circumstances such as riding crowded public transport. With so many people in such a small space, a lot of pushing and shoving goes on as people fight to find their place to stand, especially if there's something nearby to lean against. One has to learn to stand one's ground in order to avoid losing the little space one has. Thus, it is quite unsurprising that folks often get into small tussles when someone pushes too hard. This time, the grandmother who was next to me on the metro almost got into an all out scuffle with a younger lady who had pushed her and told her to move further into the train to make room for those who were getting on. Understandably, the grandmother was none too thrilled and let the whole train know. The girl responded with attitude, and then things really heated up. Luckily, I was able to get off the train before any punches were thrown...

The blessing of having a job also comes with the curse of having to travel with the masses, but, afterward, I felt as though I had somehow gone through some sort of ritual of initiation into "porteñohood" by experiencing something which porteños live daily.